


The Bad, the Ugly, and the Dixons

by Noxid_Anamchara



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, Drug Use, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, Familial Abuse, Family, Gen, Heavy Angst, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Physical Abuse, Psychological Drama, Racist Language, Verbal Abuse, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-16 15:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noxid_Anamchara/pseuds/Noxid_Anamchara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The life of the Dixon brothers before the world went to shit. The bad, the ugly, and sometimes, maybe even the good. Nobody ever said we got to choose our family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Trick

**Author's Note:**

> Noxi: Welcome to the Dixons before the Apocalypse. Be warned that ALL of the Tags serve as Trigger warnings. 
> 
> I started this fic a long time ago, over on FF.Net and it has turned into something beautifully broken. The Brothers have become a life unto each other, and I write them as I see them. The first few chapters are a little rough, unrefined. But I promise you. If you continue on this journey with me, you won't regret it. Because what once started out as just Daryl's story, has also become Merle's. And they are here to share it with you. Through their pain, their suffering, and their hope.
> 
> Disclaimer: Dixons belong to Kirkman and AMC.

 

Trick

 

Daryl knew the day he fell, and skinned both his knee and his hands, and Merle had grabbed him by the back of his shirt and hauled him up, patting him on the back gently, clearing his throat that he would _never_ stop loving his brother.

But that didn't mean he didn't _hate_ his brother either.

Merle was like the fire they burned at night to keep warm, when nobody wanted to clean out the ashes from the old furnace. They'd all have to gather round real close, but if you weren't careful, you'd get burned by a stray spark, or the flames would suddenly flare up and scorch you.

Merle was the dog everybody knew lived at the end of the road, broken and foamin' at the mouth. None a them had the heart to put it outta its misery cos it was a miserable old thing, but nobody went _near_ it neither. You weren't sure if you was gonna git bit, or if it'd actually let you pet it.

Daryl was never sure of what he was gonna get from Merle on any given day. Some days he would give an arm and a leg just to spend another moment with his brother, those days when he'd take him huntin' and swimmin', teachin' how to do brother shit. And other days he couldn't get far enough away from him. Some days, he never wanted to see Merle ever _again_.

But he learned to live with that. Learned to keep his mouth shut and his head down. Learned that he _followed_.

Following in the shadow of Merle, whether he liked what that meant or not. He did what Merle wanted. No questions asked. He did what Merle _didn't_ want to do. No questions asked. And when Merle wanted somethin', he got it. _No questions asked._

But then, Merle would drive him somewhere special; treat him like a real kid brother. Merle would take him under his arm and squeeze him tight, giving him a noogie or a wet-willy, laughing high, and child-like. Sure Daryl didn't like it. But there was something special about those moments that made him _feel_ like just a brother. A brother who cared, who loved him.

And then there were the times when his Ma or his Pa would come round, and Merle would do right by him, or when Merle wasn't there and Daryl would be left to the wolves.

Merle was different when he cared. And Daryl found that Merle cared a whole lot differently than any other person he had seen. And maybe he didn't have a lot of people to compare too, but that didn't mean nothin'. Sometimes, when Merle was carin', you had to look real hard, through all that jumble and tangle and mess a bullshit that made Merle, _Merle_.

It took Daryl a long time to figure that out. A _long_ fuckin' time.

Love and hate were a tricky thing, he figured. You couldn't have one without the other. He couldn't love Merle unless he hated him. And he sure as hell knew that he didn't hate Merle unless he loved him.

But that was the trick. How do you separate'em?

How do you keep one from becomin' the other?

How did he _love_ Merle without hatin'em?

* * *


	2. Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noxi: A moment of Dixon rivalry.
> 
> Disclaimer: The Dixons belong to Kirkman and AMC.

The sun was shinin'. He remembered that. And it was hot. Cos it was always hot in Georgia. 'Cept when the winter months came round. Then it was just cool. Maybe it got cold. Maybe a few days it snowed. But for those days when it did get cold, it was like the world froze over.

But he remembered that the sun was shining, and it was hot cos _she_ was there.

Her sun-gold hair shinin' in the sunlight. Her long pale arms spread out. Her pale blue dress kicked around her long, pale legs. She was spinnin'.

Not twirlin'. Spinnin'.

He remembered that too, cos she _told_ him she was spinnin'. Girls twirled to be _pretty_. She spun to dislodge the thoughts runnin' through her head. He didn't know what dislodge had meant, but he was pretty sure she was tryin' to get rid of the jumble runnin' through her head.

He could think of a whole lot of things he wanted to get rid of from _his_ head.

She was spinnin' now, trying to _dislodge_ somethin'.

Her name was Tessa.

She was sixteen years old and she was taller than him. He was only fourteen, and he still had some growin' to do. But he hated that. Hated that she was still taller than him.

That didn't mean he didn't _not_ like her though.

He _liked_ her sun-gold hair. He _liked_ her pale arms and legs. He _liked_ the way her dress kicked up when she spun. He _liked_ the way her hazel eyes brightened when she smiled. And he _liked_ it when she talked to him, with that sweet, low voice of hers.

And Merle, he liked her too.

Merle _always_ liked what he liked.

But Merle wasn't here this time, and he could finally talk to her _alone_. But he didn't know how to. Didn't know how to talk to a girl that he thought somethin' good of. So he just stood there and watched.

Watched her spin.

When she finally stopped, she collapsed on the ground, the blue dress ridin' high on her thighs. He felt his cheeks get hot, blood runnin' to places that he shouldn't have been thinkin' bout.

He turned away, eyes takin' in the forest around him, a mountain brook babblin' nearby. He couldn't, _didn't_ want to look at her. Somethin' didn't feel right about it.

And then, his eyes found a pair lookin' back at him.

Merle's. Piercing him between the trees. Like a snake, hoverin' in the grass, waitin' to strike.

And _Merle_.

Daryl loved his brother. Would do anything for his brother. Would probably _die_ for his brother.

But he _hated_ his brother just as much.

And Merle knew that.

And Merle knew that Daryl liked Tessa, could see it the moment they had both come walkin' down the dirt road and had come across her path, Daryl stutterin' up a storm. Merle'd called him a chicken shit the minute she was out of ear-shot.

Now, Merle stepped from the cover of the trees, and approached Tessa. Daryl heard Merle laugh, confident and cocky. His body language was lazy, but his smile.

Daryl knew what that smile suggested.

Merle's hand stretched out in greeting. He leaned forward, reachin' down to trace the line of her knee, and follow the curve of her inner thigh, pushing up her blue dress.

And Tessa, she didn't care. She just let him go right on doin' what he was doing. Her gaze never once leavin' the sky.

Merle looked up, catching Daryl's gaze, holdin' it while his fingers continued their path.

And he smirked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I have this thing that girls and the Dixons never went well. And my headcanon is that Daryl never got any, ever. So take this how you will.
> 
> Your comments would be much appreciated. Thank you for reading!


	3. Empty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Daryl and Merle Dixon belong to Robert Kirkman and AMC. 
> 
> The rest of this is purely how I interpret their lives.

It was just a day.

The sun was shining, the game was plenty and good and he was free to do as he pleased.

No responsibilities today. Work was slow, so the boss had told him not to bother coming in. Had pissed him off for a while, but he'd brushed it off. Not like he couldn't find food, if he needed it. Not like he didn't _already_ take a piss in the woods when he wanted to. Takin' a shit would just require a little more _work_. And he didn't need no heat, cos he had wood for fire.

The ol man…he let the emotions drift over him, and then away. The old man was _gone_. Sometimes, the memory hit him fresh, like it was yesterday. Sometimes he couldn't even remember that the old fuck was never comin' back.

And _Merle_.

Merle was away. Gone for the _Marines_. Daryl still couldn't believe he'd enlisted. It'd been three months now. Five months since their old man had died and three since Merle had just up and left for the Marines. He suspected that Merle wouldn't last long. Merle didn't take shit from _nobody_.

Didn't mean he didn't _enjoy_ the time he had to himself. Nobody to rag on him. Nobody to tell him what to do, when to do it, or how to do it. He got to eat when he wanted, to sleep where he wanted, to piss alone, and to think in peace.

It was fucking _quiet_. God damn was it quiet and you couldn't take that away, couldn't give him all the money in the world to trade it away.

But…

But there was still something _there_ , itching at him. He could feel it at his chest. He couldn't say what it was.

Looking around at the woods surrounding him, the mountains rising up to the west, the sounds eating at him, he wanted to place it. And then he knew. He _knew_ what that feeling was suddenly. It hit him like one of the ol' man's unexpected punches to the back, right across his shoulder blade.

Merle had _left_ him.

Just up and left, without even letting him know what he was gonna do, or that he had been planning it. One minute his brother's there, the next he ain't.

And it was that emptiness, the emptiness of no Merle at his side; yelling at him, slapping him, berating him, making fun of him or correcting him that left an ache his chest bigger than he wanted to admit.

And that wasn't _normal._

Daryl sighed and hitched the crossbow, _Merle's_ crossbow, higher over his shoulder. He couldn't even go a day without _not_ using something of Merle's. A reminder that his brother was still there. A reminder that he wasn't _alone_. He sucked in a breath, the crisp fall air refreshing. The leaves crackled beneath his feet and he mentally noted that he was in for a challenge this hunt. A challenge he gratefully, willingly accepted.

_Goddammit, you fuckin' idiot! What you got, two left feet?  
_

Daryl smirked as his brother's voice reverberated in his head. Even now he couldn't seem to _not_ hear him.

_Don't scare off the game, baby brother!_ Someone's _gotta feed us._

And Daryl wondered when Merle would be back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading. Your comments would be greatly appreciated.


	4. Jaybird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another day with Daryl. Thank you for reading and, as always, your comments would be appreciated.

He could feel his daddy's rage, from across the room. And he wasn't even _doing_ anything. He was just sitting there, by the shoddy fireplace, whittling a piece of wood.

He was trying to make a jaybird, with its wings spread. But he couldn't seem to get the wings just _right_. Something about his daddy's fierce gaze, just staring at him, kept his hands unsteady and those wings off-kilter.

But dammit if he didn't want to get those wings to fly. The bird was beautiful, leasts he thought so. The wood was a deep cherry color, with streaks of gold-brown flowing through it. He'd nicked it off a neighbor's store-front, the one that sold all those fancy, fake carvings that shined with lacquer and money.

He was making something that was actually worth more than just _money_.

But his daddy was making it hard to do. Though he'd never say that out loud. He didn't want no trouble.

And then daddy's chair groaned against the hardwood floor as he rose to his feet, and Daryl's hand slipped, the blade jerking across his finger.

He sat still. Didn't move a muscle. Even as the pain of the wound on his finger made him grit his teeth. He just watched the blood form around the cut, and when it was just _too much_ , it fell to the floor.

_Drip, drip, drip._

He could feel it pooling in his hand, coating the bird.

And his daddy's heavy footfalls came nearer, and he instinctively gripped the bird tighter. He clenched his teeth, as blood came heavier from the wound and pained flared across his finger.

Those black boots, worn and faded, came into his view. And he waited with bated breath.

"What the fuck are ya waitin' fur boy?" He tipped his head up, just a little. He didn't meet his daddy's gaze, but looked at a hole in his shirt near his left shoulder.

"Clean that shit up." He watched as his daddy's boot toed the wood shavings and blood at his feet, his lungs burning with the need to breath. But he didn't fucking _dare_ move.

Daddy's boots slowly moved away then.

And not _once_ did he mention the blood or the wound on his finger. Daryl looked down at the carving in his hand.

The jaybird was coated in red. _His_ blood staining the once beautiful piece. It was worthless now. Not when it was coated in _his_ filth.

And he could see that his grip had broken the wing, further damaging any work he could have salvaged from it.

He let it fall from his hand, his blood still falling freely, tumbling to the ground with it.

Maybe the bird wasn't _meant_ to fly.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Leave a note, a comment, tell me what you're anticipating. The boys will be a heavy journey to witness. 
> 
> Because I have no illusions that Merle has treated Daryl with any kind of good. In fact, I think the worst of him. But, that doesn't mean that I don't firmly believe that Merle loves Daryl. He just never learned how to show that. He was never taught that it was okay to show that. 
> 
> His biggest mistakes have always been to drag Daryl down, deep into the pit of his darkness, but that's all he knows how to do. That's the only way he can love.
> 
> And love, it comes in all forms.


End file.
